The Backup Plan
by raffertypaulsen
Summary: Once upon a time, Harvey and Donna made a pact.


_Fifteen years ago_

* * *

Two months into their working relationship and it's becoming a familiar situation. Two glasses of scotch, and them.

He's leaning on her desk late this Tuesday evening after everyone's gone home, admiring her shiny green dress that hugs all the right curves and trying not to stare exactly where he wants to. At that goddamn neckline.

"Harvey, you're going to get back pain if you don't stop doing that," she says. Bossing him around as usual.

"Stop what?" he says, feigning innocence.

"Leaning on my desk. Pull up a chair, old man," she teases, flashing him a warm smile. The DA's office couldn't be more drab and dull, but somehow she managed to brighten the whole room.

"If you say so, Donna." He grins and steals a seat from the nearest cubicle, sliding just close enough for his knee to graze hers.

They're celebrating, ostensibly—another bad guy going away. Lately they seem to be coming up with plenty of occasions for celebration, with the criteria getting more and more lenient. The truth is that he's never enjoyed spending time with a woman so much, outside the bedroom. And sure, he'd like to have some fun with her there too. But he hadn't pushed that, because he didn't want her to think that was the reason he liked being around her. He hadn't quite figured out exactly what it was yet, but it was definitely so much more than that.

"Weren't you supposed to be on a date with what's-his-face right now?" he says with what he thinks is an impressive air of nonchalance, as he pours her another glass. Yeah, he knew the guy's name. Patrick. He also knew that he was an investment banker from Long Island, 32, and distantly related to the Kennedys. But then he didn't want her to think he was paying that much attention.

She purses her lips and tilts her head at him as she accepts the drink, torn between exasperation and amusement. "Now how do you know that, Harvey."

He may or may not have been eavesdropping on her phone conversation yesterday, but revealing that wouldn't be any fun. "What? You can do the psychic thing on me but I'm not allowed to do it to you?"

"It's my _job_ to know things about you," she says, as though explaining something to a petulant child.

"And it's _my_ job to be supportive of my employee's personal life."

She leans back in her chair and eyes him suspiciously. "Is _that_ what we're calling it?"

He shrugs, the hint of a teasing smile playing on his lips. He goes for a blatant bluff. "Fine, if you don't want to tell me, I'll just ask Bertha." There was no way in hell he'd really discuss Donna's dating habits with anyone. But it seems to do the trick.

"If you must know," she sighs. "We broke up." She looks down sadly and he resists the urge to reach for her hand. As much as he liked the idea of having her attention all to himself, he could never be happy about something that made her sigh like that.

"I'm sorry, Donna."

She bites her lip and eyes him over the rim of her scotch glass. "I'm willing to pretend that I believe that," she says with a wry smile.

"And why wouldn't you believe it?" he says in mock offence.

"Because you're _you_," she smirks, back to sass now.

"Meaning?"

Her mouth hangs open for a moment, and she looks torn. Then she shakes her head and rolls her eyes playfully. "Never mind."

He senses she's about to change the subject, but he wants to continue their current conversation. She's always guarded about this type of thing, but the three glasses of scotch they'd already downed tonight might help with that. He inches his chair closer. "So, what happened?"

She shrugs. "Just…weren't right for each other."

"How so?" He's probably pushing his luck but hey, it's worth a shot.

She's thoughtful for a second. "He was ready to settle down. Have babies. All that."

Now he's definitely intrigued; it's a topic that hasn't come up between them before. They'd talked about their future career goals, of course, but this—talking about things they wanted outside work—this was new.

"And you're not?" he questions, watching her reaction with interest.

He can't read her as well as she seems to be able to read him, but he senses that she's feeling unsure about her decision. "Maybe I'm not done exploring what else is out there," she ponders.

"What else or who else?" he chances.

After an irritated look and a moment of hesitation, she finally relents. "Who."

"You know, I admire that approach."

"Meaning?" she imitates.

"Well, why buy a car before test driving as many as you can?"

She snorts. "You're saying you're going to sleep with every woman in Manhattan before committing to one?"

"Hey, it wouldn't hurt." It's certainly an exaggeration and he's being overly cocky around her, as usual. He likes it when she rolls her eyes at him.

"So, no plans to settle down any time soon?"

He inspects her, trying to gauge the tone of her question. She's not looking at him, fiddling with a pen on her desk. In all honesty, it's not really something he spends much time thinking about. He's barely out of his twenties, and based on his experience, the negative aspects of relationships seem to outweigh the positives.

He shrugs. "I'm not really sure," he says noncommittally. "Maybe someday. If I ever get my shit together."

"Hmm. Well there's an impossible task if I ever heard one," she jokes.

"That's reassuring coming from someone whose job is literally to keep my shit together."

She places a hand on his thigh and leans forward, as though telling him a secret. "Well unfortunately for you, mister, I'm not in charge of your love life." He thinks her hand is lingering a bit longer than a friendly touch. Then again, he's no expert in being friends with women, so what does he know.

"Maybe you should be. I don't seem to be doing a very good job lately." Memories of the two women he struck out with on Saturday come to mind, one of them calling him an arrogant asshole after he'd suggested her dress would look even better on his bedroom floor. Yeah, that could have gone better.

"Oooh," she winces dramatically, "is the Heartbreaker getting a taste of his own medicine?"

"Hey!" he objects. "I'm not—"

"Do you know how many women have called your office, asking if you changed your number? Or went away on a business trip? Or moved to South America?" She fixes him with a disapproving stare and crosses her arms.

He bursts into laughter, her stern tone only making the whole thing more hilarious. Even though he should probably feel bad about it. "You're not serious?"

"Oh, I never joke about such things. I tell them you've got a very busy side practice in Brazil."

He shakes his head, wondering how on earth he got lucky enough to find the best assistant in the world, without any effort whatsoever on his part. She'd walked herself right into his life and he could still scarcely believe it. "Donna…you're the best." It's lame and he curses himself for being too much of a chicken to finish the thought and say what he really means, which is _you're the best thing that's ever happened to me_.

Suddenly there's a glimmer in her eye. "Well, since we're both failures in the love department, I've got an idea…what if we were each other's backups?"

"Backups?"

"Yeah, you know. It's a thing. Like if we're 40 and we're still single, we could get together. Have some kids," she says casually.

He nearly chokes on a mouthful of whiskey. "I thought you didn't want—"

"Right _now_," she reminds him. "Not never."

"Backup," he repeats. The word doesn't sit right with him. It sounds like settling, and a woman like her could never be associated with settling.

"I mean, we enjoy spending time together. And we know each other's flaws already, so no surprises there. We wouldn't be working together anymore. What do you think?" He stares at her, still stuck on _e__ach other's flaws_. As if they were on the same level. As if she even had any.

He wants to say that she'll never need a backup, that he's sure she'll find a man who makes her want everything. But he doesn't want to overreact and make more out of it than she's expecting, so he plays along, rearranging his face into a joking smile.

"Yeah. Okay. Why not."

"Deal," she smiles in satisfaction. "Let's drink to that." She raises her glass and clinks it against his. He nods and takes a swig, searching her face. Somehow he feels like she's testing him. But what was she looking for, a playful response or genuine enthusiasm? Did it really not mean anything, the fact that she'd just casually suggested they have a family together someday?

He's just tipsy enough that it seems like a good idea to start flirting and find out. "So, how does one typically certify this type of deal?"

"Well, you're the lawyer, what would you suggest? Handshake? Contract?"

It's too perfect an opening, and she looks too perfect right now, so fuck it. He throws caution to the wind. "I'd prefer something less office-appropriate."

She holds up a hand. "Stop right there, Casanova." But she doesn't seem bothered in the least by this suggestion. After all, she knows he would. He told her so the very night they met. And she still wanted to work for him, so maybe she would too. That subtext of their relationship sometimes disappeared behind the everyday drudgery of deadlines and documents. But on nights like these, it was still there.

He swirls the amber liquid in his glass, mostly for something to occupy his hands and stop himself from doing something stupid. "So…kids, huh? How many would we have?"

"Oh, you know," she shrugs nonchalantly. "Two. Boy and girl." The answer comes so easily that he starts to wonder if maybe it hadn't been a spur-of-the-moment idea after all.

"Redhead? Blonde?"

"_Strawberry_ blonde," she corrects.

"Mmm. Strawberry. I like that." An image starts to form in his mind and he feels an unfamiliar rush of anticipation and excitement. He doesn't understand it, but he doesn't want it to stop. "Names?"

"Hmm. Well, to celebrate my brilliant acting career, Ophelia for a girl, and—"

"Oh no," he chuckles. "I'm not naming our child after—" He stops himself abruptly; it's venturing a bit too close to sounding real now.

They lapse into silence for a second and he wonders if she'll ask why he stopped, but she seems to have become oddly interested in her scotch glass as well. The harsh ticking of the wall clock is suddenly amplified and he casts around for a subject to break the tension. "So in this—hypothetical—scenario of yours," he muses, "why haven't we made it work with anyone else?"

She takes her time swallowing the last mouthful of her drink and considers him for a second. "Well, I…have very high standards," she reasons slowly. "And you"—she points her finger in his direction—"have a fear of commitment." The finger comes to rest on his chest and stays there. "And generally the emotional intelligence of a ten-year-old."

He raises an eyebrow. "Go on." Normally he wouldn't find such an exercise enjoyable. But somehow her insults always came across closer to foreplay.

"If you insist. Very demanding schedule. Not fond of compromise." Her fingers creep up to his tie now and she's fiddling with his Windsor knot, not meeting his eyes. "Distrustful of women. Fairly arrogant."

"Right," he says softly. She's so close to him now, he starts to imagine how she'd fit in his arms.

How she'd fit in his life.

"Definitely not husband material." He meant for it to sound joking, but it comes out infused with a touch of regret.

She looks up at him with searching eyes, eyebrows slanted into a question. He feels a sudden rush of dizziness and it's all too much; the scent of her perfume in his nostrils, her breath on his neck. Rattled, he jerks his arm to reach for his glass and the action causes her hand to fall back to her lap. She's suddenly a picture of shame. "Harvey, I didn't mean—"

Standing abruptly, he chugs the rest of his drink. It goes down roughly and he has a coughing fit trying to catch his breath. _Smooth, Specter._

"You okay there?" She raises her eyebrows, standing to place a concerned hand on his back.

His body tenses at the gentle contact and he steps away from her touch. "Yeah, I should…get back to work." _Or I could stay with you all night,_ he thinks. _And maybe forever. _He clamps down on that thought.

"I'll…be in my office."

"But…Harvey," she eyes him in confusion. "It's 9 o'clock and we've been drinking for the last hour. I thought you were done for the day."

"Um, I'm just gonna…" he gestures back toward his desk. "Work ahead on a few things."

She gives him a quizzical look and sighs. Was it disappointment? Hurt? "Okay. Well. I guess I'll head home." She picks up her coat and bag and stands up to leave. "Thanks for the drinks, Harvey. Call me if you need anything."

He nods and watches her walk away. Somehow, he makes it back to his office, where he collapses into his chair and shuts his eyes. _This is exactly why I don't do relationships, _he thinks. Because feelings are involved, and feelings are a form of weakness that exposes you to attack. And you don't become New York's best attorney by voluntarily giving yourself weaknesses.

Picking up a file from his desk at random, he stares at the words on the page, trying to distract his mind.

…_the defendant takes the position that his conduct did not constitute "gambling", defined as when a person "stakes or risks something of value upon the outcome of a contest of chance or a future contingent event not under his control or influence, upon an agreement or understanding that he will receive something of value in the event of a certain outcome" (§ 225.00[2])_…

It's a hopeless exercise. He reaches for the scotch and pours himself a fourth glass. And then another. Anything to dull the image of her, laughing and smiling at him, holding the hand of a tiny red-haired girl (his tiny red-haired girl).

In the end, he never does get any more work done that night, but he does work out that he's in trouble.

Because he's got a glaring weakness. And her name is Donna Paulsen.

* * *

_Present day_

He's sitting at the kitchen island, lost in thought, when Donna comes up behind him and jolts him from his reverie.

"Harvey?" She runs her hand up his back to rest on his shoulder. "You look like you're somewhere else. What are you thinking about?"

Turning in his seat, he admires the vision in front of him, her hair falling in loose waves; her skin infused with extra glow. After almost two years together she was still capable of taking his breath away.

"Oh, I was just…thinking back to our early years. At the DA's office. The first time I knew I wanted…" He reaches out and softly strokes her rounded belly. "This."

_This._ A single word that signified so much—a daughter, a family of their own, and a promise of an even more beautiful future together.

"The DA's office?" she asks in confusion. "Even then?"

He nods and takes her hand, lacing their fingers together. The action that symbolized their partnership had only become more meaningful with the rings that now rested against each other. "You remember when we made that silly backup plan?"

She's staring at him, still in shock. "But that was…all this time, you…"

"Always."

.

.

.

* * *

**A/N: I know it's not much but I hope you enjoyed this little one shot to celebrate Darvey week! Thank you to the Friends writers and JK Rowling for the touches of inspiration they provided for this story :) And to Wika for being my #1 fan xx**


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